All through that weary Wednesday Draeth waited for the “Light of Home” and still she did not come. There was a heavy fall of snow inland, the papers said, and the wind at sea grew more and more boisterous. On Thursday morning there was snow in Draeth itself, the roofs were white, and it settled on the fields above the cliffs.
Still there was no sign of the “Light of Home.” Glasses swept the horizon in vain. No sail was in sight!
Dozens of people were on the front looking out seaward the whole day long. Women wept and little children were terrified.
All this time Mrs. Tregennis never left the house, but went about her work with tight, colourless lips, and with unseeing eyes. At school Tommy sat still and frightened, but his Mammy said ’twas better as he should go.
Mrs. Radford attempted tactless consolation, but Tommy’s Ladies behaved as far as possible in a normal way. Outside they shunned the shifting throng on the front, because they dreaded hearing the muttered conjectures. So they sat some little distance apart on the rocks, straining—like all the rest of Draeth—straining out to sea.
“If I were the parson here,” said Miss Margaret, “I should open the church and ask all those people on the front to come in. I’d just have one strong, simple prayer and sing ‘For those in peril on the sea.’ I shouldn’t say anything to them because I should only cry if I did.” Miss Margaret groped for her handkerchief and wiped away the tears that were trickling down her cheek.
In the whole wide world there seemed to be one thing only that really mattered, and this was that the “Light of Home” should sail over the horizon and ride with the tide up the harbour to Draeth.
The remaining hours of the Thursday dragged with incredible slowness. It was a relief when night came and there could be no more weary gazing seaward for a few hours at least.
When Mrs. Tregennis brought the tea in the morning there was a new look in her eyes.
“Well?” asked the ladies, fearfully.